


In His Bubble

by May



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dream Bubbles, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/pseuds/May
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You died halfway through the game and slipped off to the side in your own quiet bubble. You don't know what Gamzee's doing or why he chooses to visit you in particular, but you've decided it's none of your business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In His Bubble

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme, although it went in a slightly different direction, so it didn't really fill the request, anymore. It does, though, feature a dominant Tav in a cute fairy dress. And I really wanted to do this to Gamzee.

You have legs again. Your legs.

You remembered, then; when Vriska had said you should, you'd fought enemies too advanced for your level, and had taken a claw to the throat. You found out, later, that you were from a timeline that had never meant to be.

You noticed that Vriska's fairy-dress was draped across the edge of your recuperacoon. Wherever your Vriska went, she's not here.

You have legs, now, and you wanted to look at them. When you first realised you were dead, you peeled off the clothes that you wore during death, and took a good look down yourself. You found that you are taller than you remembered being, and that you are not all that skinny. Maybe you had only felt little, before. Things are quiet, here, in a different way when nobody can contact you, and you can hear your own thoughts. You pulled on Vriska's fairy-dress and pulled it down as far as it would go. It was fairly short on her, and is short enough on you that it's barely modest at all.

You like it, though. You really, really like your legs.

You hear somebody walk past. It's a soft pad rather than a loud stomp. You don't want to take the dress off, at all, but you don't feel like you want to flash anybody. Luckily, you're in your hive and you pull out a blanket that you would use in the dark season, when it got cold and you couldn't go to sleep, yet. You fold it round you and open the door.

Your visitor is lanky and purple, with two long horns sticking out from a tall hood. He's wearing an impressive codpiece and his expression is uncharacteristically at odds with his face-paint.

It's Gamzee. You've seen him before and it's weird how things progress when you're in a bubble. He sees you, and smiles, his irises threading with purple and his grin loose. You've guessed stuff has been happening since you died, but you don't really care, anymore. You're happy to just slide off the side of everything and not think about anything. You're already dead and your Alternia is a memory. Not like anybody can cull you for anything, now.

You open the door and he turns on his heels and lopes in past you, without saying a word. He's always been strange, and you think he's gotten stranger. When you ask him why he's wearing what he's wearing, he gives you a non-commital line about just knowing he's gotta wear it. He won't tell you why he has those scars, either. He sits on the floor, crossing his legs, with one curled slipper resting on top. He pulls his hood back, letting his hair free.

You discard your blanket. Gamzee's eyes go straight to your face, anyway, without resting on your thighs or on the slit of your sheath. You'd assumed, once, that he was the one with all the mating fondness, but he's not taken the lead since you've been dead.

You don't tell him to undress, although maybe you do feel like you could give him that order, now. But you don't need to, anyway, because he slips off his codpiece and his pants, his slippers and his hood. He leaves on his shirt, though, and you don't feel like prompting him to do otherwise. He kneels in front of you and tilts his body forward. You knot your fingers in his hair and gently graze the tips of your claws around the base of his left horn. He gives a soft, bubbling chirp and leans into you, resting on the balls of his hands.

Had you been alive, and both living on Alternia, you'd probably call what you have a matespritship. Here, with you a forgotten side effect of a doomed timeline, and him from somewhere completely unknown, there seems to be no point in labelling yourselves into anything. He doesn't seem to mind whatever it is that you have.

Your bulge is starting to slip out of your sheath with a familiar wet ache. Gamzee's sheath is still a neat, closed line, you notice, but he moves his face towards your bulge, anyway. The tip brushes across his cheek, smearing your orange-brown with his face paint. It's cold. He's cold, much colder than you feel, and you're dead. Gamzee presses his cheek closer against your bulge, closes his eyes and starts whispering. This is increasingly usual. He keeps his voice too low for you to really hear what he's saying. You used to make fun of his religion, after all. Your bulge has been swollen and twisting for long enough, though, and it's slick with cool paint and the contrast with your own warmth is not helping. A growl surfaces in the back of your throat, and you gently wrap your fingers around his horn and force his face forward, just slightly. Your bulge catches on his lip and you hook it into his mouth. Although you are still grasping his horn, you don't need to do much to get him to take you in.

You give a push, however, as he still tries to murmur. You slide in far enough to move across his tongue until you reach the back of his throat. This makes his eyes water purple, but a rumbling purr begins in his chest and vibrates along the length of your bulge and you moan through your teeth. His mouth strains around you, and you are careful not to flick your bulge too much. Gamzee's teeth are long, but not quite as sharp as the needle teeth that some other trolls have. Had. You're not sure. As long as he doesn't bite down - and you trust him not to - they score along your bulge with a sort of prickling tension, and it doesn't hurt.

You grasp his horns, less to to force his head back and forth and more to give yourself purchase. There's a throb of a purr from him, anyway, and you begin to move. You can see the bump of the movement through the skin of his cheeks. His mouth is cool and tight, and you tighten your fingers around his horns. You can feel tension building in your gut and the growl makes itself known, again. You push harder and Gamzee whines a little when the tip of your bulge slithers and pushes against the back of his throat. His eyes water purple, again, and he closes them. It takes you a moment to realise that he can't breathe. You stop, but he makes no attempt to ease himself back, however, so you gently pull yourself back until you're only on his tongue.

You remove one hand from a horn and run your fingers through his hair and shoosh him. He keens low in his throat and continues to rumble and purr, his tongue sliding back and forth along the underside of your bulge. He hasn't touched himself, yet, but, now, you see his hand slip between his legs. You don't have a good view, but you can hear the sound of his fingers slipping into his opening sheath. He moans around you, and you find yourself pulling him closer by his hair, before you can stop.

Touching himself, and with you thick and heavy in his mouth, he's purring louder and deeper than he has been, yet. You're going to come, so you do. It clogs in his throat and runs out the sides of his mouth, sticky in his paint. You brush his hair out of his eyes and hand him a towel to clean it off. He's still touching himself, his long fingers pressing into his nook as his bulge pushes between them. Dark purple leaks onto the floor,between his legs. You stroke his hair until he finishes, before wrapping him in a blanket. He settles, for a moment, and doesn't say anything. His facepaint retains none of its usual shape, but he doesn't bother to do anything about it, just now.

"So, are you going to come back soon?" you ask, after a while.

"Maybe I'm all thinking about that, Tavros," he replies. "You all up and tucked down on here in your bubble."

You wonder, for a moment, if he's been seeing any other versions of you. Could there actually be a version of you that could be pitch for him? You cast the thought aside - it doesn't really matter, does it?

After dozing in your blanket, then he gets up, gets dressed, again. Before leaving, you watch him carefully reapply his paint. He's more careful with this than anything else you've ever seen him do - his movements are quick and precise, rather than loose and nonchalant. He doesn't say anything when he goes. You think he might not know what to say.

You pull your dress down and think about trying to play fiduspawn.


End file.
